


Dorian Drabbles

by BosieJan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BosieJan/pseuds/BosieJan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of 'memoirs' I sporadically post to my Dorian blog on Tumblr. Thought they should be collected somewhere else, just for safe-keeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Library

**Author's Note:**

> In which Dorian retreats to his sanctuary.

He could complain endlessly about the temperature inside Skyhold all he wanted, but Dorian really had little to complain about. He’d dealt with freezing cold in the south before, pelting rains on the Storm Coast, and the barren, uninhabitable mess that was the Hissing Wastes. The chill he felt upon rising in the morning, was often conquered by a roaring fire in his hearth, or a visit to the main hall, where he would undoubtedly find the Inquisitor and the rest of their merry band enjoying breakfast.

The library was more commonly his sanctuary, however, and he would make a quick trip to the main hall to gather himself some porridge, or a part loaf of bread and some cheese, before venturing into the dusty tomes and forgotten realms he so adored. The Haven villagers that had become Skyhold’s majority population, worked hard to returning to their lives within the great castle, producing what they needed, as they needed it. 

Dorian was particularly fond of the hard-crusted loaves of bread the baker in the West battlements created, and he liked pairing it with a wedge of soft, white cheese from the only cheesemaker Skyhold had. The man was a genius, and Dorian regularly told him so. It offered Dorian first pick on the newest cheeses, and if the mage slipped the man an extra bit of coin on occasion, the cheesemaker even offered him the fresh curds upon which Dorian could snack as he walked.

That morning’s breakfast had been porridge and a hash made of eggs and potatoes, which Dorian didn’t exactly mind, and he took a good deal of it back to the library, carefully setting the tray on the round table by the hearth. He settled into the grand chair and removed the strip of leather from the book he’d been reading the night before; ‘Nothing Less Deserving’, it was called. A tale of a thief from the previous Age, which had struck Dorian as strange and thus forced him to investigate the story further. Too many points had rang true according to Thedas’ history, and he quickly began to think the story was actually true.

Dorian painted a picture of comfort in an uncomfortable world, as he balanced the book in one hand and leaned heavily to one side every few minutes, to eat his breakfast _away_ from the old tome. He lost count of the times he’d caught Cullen dropping crumbs into their resource books, or the Inquisitor coming dangerously close to slopping his stew on their maps. Dorian wouldn’t go so far as to say he was protective of the books–he threw books he deemed as trash from balconies and windows–but the books which held _useful_ information were his responsibility.

“ _One_ of us needs to maintain some semblance of culture and taste,” he grumbled to himself, as he suddenly remembered the ‘ruined archival pages’ incident. It hadn’t exactly soured Dorian on the Inquisitor forever, but he was upset for some days.

Honey could _not_ be cleaned from parchment, no matter _how_ many cups of water are poured on it. The Inquisitor was only lucky that Dorian hadn’t been at his best when it happened, or there would have been hell to pay. They had all returned hungry and sore from a weeks’ worth of travel and battle, and eating honeyed bread while rooting through antique documents seemed a good idea at the time.


	2. Rare Jewel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian isn't just some pretty face; though he _is_ pretty.

Whereas the library was Dorian’s stronghold of knowledge, information and silent interest, the battlefield was where he truly shone. His form, while immaculate, was not without its faults. He struggled to maintain his strength against some enemies, yet he rebuffed others with ease. He growled when he was forced to fight harder–or dirtier–with any one monster, and then hated the idea that he had seemed weaker than his conquered foe. The faults proved to the Inquisitor and the rest of their group, that Dorian was an actual person, not some spectre thrust upon them by the Magisterium.

The others looked to him for intelligent guidance, as well, despite the fact that Dorian would first consult the Inquisitor regardless of the question. It seemed like double-dipping, but Dorian knew better than to make assumptions and fall afoul of their gallant leader. His comfort within Skyhold was dependent upon the Inquisitor’s need of him, so Dorian was both loyal _and_ cunning. Whether the Inquisitor’s need of him was for the good of the Inquisition or the good of the Inquisitor himself, was neither here nor there; Dorian was often employed on both sides of that fence.

Which is not to say that Dorian was _using_ the Inquisitor. At least, not in the way the Inquisition’s enemies _assumed_ he was. There was a mutual understanding of the chain of command; Dorian only spoke out of turn or allowed himself the pleasure of being bossy to the Inquisitor when the pair were engaged within the Inquisitor’s chambers, and never outside of them. He was polite and followed orders outside of them, and never betrayed the Inquisitor’s trust by gossiping.

_If he could help it._

Nor was the Inquisitor _using_ Dorian. A shared bed on many a cold night–and most of the nights in between, when no battle was currently being waged–and the freedom to do as he pleased without endangering the Inquisition, was what the Inquisitor offered in return. The chance to kill monsters that harmed Thedas and her people, and sometimes the dangerous people themselves, was only an added bonus.


	3. Privacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian _really_ loves his privy.

Dorian quite liked his privy; his chambers were in the corner of Skyhold’s second level, next to the library, and he had a privy all to himself. It was understood that the chambers had once belonged to the castle’s archivist once upon a time, and as the Chantry ruled most of the south before the castle was abandoned, the archivist would have likely been a cleric, and the need for privacy was at its highest for a man of the cloth. The Inquisitor had the best rooms, of course–likely those once belonging to the lord of the castle–but Dorian’s were quite serviceable.

It gave him a place of respite, despite the fact that he was in there for rude purposes. He enjoyed doing his business and being able to rid his rooms of it without doing anything other than tossing a bucket of water down afterwards. It was convenient and welcome, after months of traveling alone and using the woods like a savage. 

They had similar things in all the castles and large homesteads Dorian had visited in his life, but his was just that; _his_. He didn’t have to share a common latrine like Cullen’s soldiers. He had no pits to dig–then bury–nor did he have to employ a slave for the job, the way his family once had. The water was brought up by a paid servant in Skyhold, and Dorian was more than willing to ‘flush’ away his business in private, then set the bucket outside his door for more.

The bathtub was just as large of a luxury as the privy, however. It sat in the main room, nearer the fireplace than Dorian had wished, but the privy itself was too small to house it. There was no way to drain it after a bath, but Dorian was able to use his magic for more than just battle. Plain, cold water could be brought up and poured into the tub then Dorian could heat it before he bathed, but removing it afterwards without the aide of any sort of drainage system proved difficult. 

He assumed the servants could bale out the water again and then cloth-dry the tub to prevent mildew from gathering at the bottom, but it was time consuming and a very lengthy invasion of his after-bath privacy. Charging the air around the tub and heating the water within evaporated it quickly and efficiently, and served as an exciting parlour trick for any gentlemen callers Dorian was entertaining. 

Working his craft while in the nude was only _part_ of the trick.


	4. Archivist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only archivist south of Ostwick worth his _salt_.

The library at Skyhold was categorized alphabetically within a month of them finally settling in. The Inquisitor brought more books almost weekly and Dorian spent the first few hours after a delivery cleaning and sorting them. Some books came in dusty from disuse in other libraries, others were just musty and aged. There was one cloth for dust, and another one for actual dirt–some of the books came a long distance to be donated to the Inquisition, so Dorian was ready for all types.

Those ruined by water were usually read through to glean whatever information he could, then Dorian burned them. It broke his heart, but damp books never dried right, and they were breeding grounds for bookworms and mildew. Sometimes, if a book was particularly important and he couldn’t bring himself to burn it, Dorian would whip up a type of acidic wash for the books’ outer covers, made from lye and a soft pink fruit that grew in the Hinterlands. It was an expensive item, but some information was important enough to go to any lengths for.

“Categories A through M are in the west wing,” he explained one day, when the Inquisitor asked why so many books were missing from the main library. “And categories N through Z are in the east wing. I’ve kept the most important books in a safe place away from _both_ areas, just in case someone ever decided to sneak in here and burn our collection. I’ll not have anyone destroying _my_ copy of the _Dizionario Magia_. It took me almost a week just to work up the courage to even _open_ it!”

The Inquisitor only chuckled and let Dorian do as he wished; there was no harm in allowing the mage his hobby. His research came in handy more often than not, and Dorian liked feeling _useful._ He knew that his aide on the battlefield was worthwhile and even exemplary, but not a soul in Skyhold knew as much mundane–but often useful–information as he.


	5. Creature Comforts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian once enjoyed the finer things, but now settles for what he can _get_.

Dorian had done without a lot of things, after he left Tevinter. Fine clothes, fine food, the safety of a set of rooms he could call his own, and servants to do his bidding. He hadn’t realized things had gotten bad, however, until he had to rid himself of his amulet in order to survive. He cursed his father inside and out until the day the Inquisitor had retrieved the blasted thing for him, and swore that he’d never again leave home without some sort of coin and a decent pair of smallclothes.

Lodgings had been taken care of with the acquisition of Skyhold and Dorian had any access he needed to the Inquisition’s aides; metallurgists, leathersmiths, seamstresses and armourers. His clothing was once again a point of pride, and the chance to find hair oil and metal grooming tools again, had been a boon to his ego. Personal grooming tools aside, Dorian was equally happy wqith the sturdy bathtub in his chambers, and all the fancy–and sometimes expensive–soaps he wanted, though the Inquisitor kept a good supply of the regular soaps and lotions in the privvies for guests and those housed within, and the surrounding inhabitants dealt with things in a similar fashion.

But when food was concerned, Dorian had been happy with anything and everything, unless it had nuts in it. Nuts were a point of conjecture when it came to Dorian’s tastes; he _loathed_ them. The taste of a simple acorn or halved-almond had him dry heaving, and sometimes ruined the meals for those around him. Nuts weren’t hard to come by in Ferelden and its surrounding areas, and they were a large part of the South’s diet, so Dorian found that he had to prepare his own meals, or stick to uncomplicated things like porridges, cheeses, and breads, lest he find a nasty little landmine in his food.

On the topic of sweets, Dorian preferred a chewy type of sweet called _zucchero_. It was essentially a candied sugar bomb; crunchy on the outside and filled with liquid fondant that could absolutely rot the teeth if left to sit upon them for any length of time. They were made only in Minrathous and they had to be smuggled in from the black market in Orlais, so a once-monthly visit to the merchant in the neighbouring city offered not only information on treaties and war, but also perfumes, linens, staple food goods, and boxes of the expensive little morsels, which Dorian hoarded greedily.


	6. 'Tis But A Flesh Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets injured just as often as the others, but he's bad for neglecting his own health.

It was only a small wound, but it ached something _terrible_.

The shard of crockery had penetrated Dorian’s robes and the leather underneath, leaving him with a sharp stab of pain on his left side. He was sure no bones were broken in the fight, but the explosive–and incendiary!–little bombs thrown by the monsters they’d encountered, were something he hadn’t experienced before, and was likely never to fall victim to a _second_ time.

He wanted to hold his hand against the wound to staunch the bleeding, but touching it only caused more pain. The intrusive item would need to be removed first, but they were days out from any cities in the Hissing Wastes, and the Inquisitor was eager to get moving. Dorian muddled through, casting his spells and performing his daring feats of magic without much complaint, but he was dragging his feet severely by the time they returned to Skyhold.

It was Iron Bull who noticed it first, but neglected to call Dorian out on it; his sense of self-preservation was broad and he thought highly of Dorian, so he thought it rude to bring it to the attention of the entire party. Dorian waved a hand to Bull’s gentle concern in the corridor and returned to his chambers at a slow pace. His robes were ruined with blood underneath–something Bull no doubt smelled and with Dorian’s odd behaviour, put two and two together–so he pulled them off to get a better look. He _could_ have seen the healer, but then word would have gotten out.

The wound was infected after a week’s worth of travel, and it was hot and an angry shade of red. He fetched himself a bowl of water and a few cloths, then set to work cleaning the wound. The pottery shard was removed gingerly but still incredibly painfully, and Dorian feared he may pass out before he finished. It clinked into the bottom of the bowl and Dorian breathed heavily through his mouth as he tried to ignore the stink of infection coming from the wound.

He packed it with a poultice he’d whipped up quickly from his healing kit, then covered it in linen and slathered more on over top. It was nothing to walk around topless in the mild springtime, but Dorian shivered and draped a clean robe over his shoulders to stave off the cold, He fell into a fitful slumber in his chair by the fire, and was checked on twice by his companions; first by iron Bull, then the Inquisitor, wherein the two had a scathing discussion in the corridor about secrets being kept. Bull promised never to do it again, and he stationed a Charger member by the door, to check on Dorian hourly.

Needless to say, Dorian was unimpressed when he emerged from his rooms three days later, looking haggard and slightly malnourished, his scowl falling upon the Charger member. The man immediately ran to inform Bull that Dorian was up and around, and the entire party descended upon Skyhold’s upper floor, asking questions, pointing accusatory fingers, and offering to fetch things for the injured mage.

Dorian needed something other than water and dry biscuits, which he had squirreled away once upon a time for _just_ such an occasion, and spent the remainder of his recovery waving hands and making demands. The others were only too eager to help, though Dorian offered a polite apology to Bull for forcing him to keep it secret, then giving it up anyway. Bull only chuckled and told Dorian that he’d carry him home himself if it happened again, and strap him to the bed at the healer’s to prevent his escape.


	7. Can't Rain All The Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has a checkered past, but it's also shiny with elbow grease from his attempts at survival.

It wasn’t cold; not _really._

Tevinter had no true cold season, only a rainy season. It rained like a monsoon for upwards of a month, wherein the citizens of Minrathous normally stayed indoors, and only ventured out for basic necessities and the most important parties. For Dorian, ashamed of his behaviour with Magister Alexius and on the run from Alexius’ household after a rather vicious argument, the rain seemed endless and he had never hated it as much as he did in that moment.

The elven slums, alienages they were called, were Dorian’s favourite place to visit. He had no real address and merely floated from place to place, using what little coin he had to pay for whores and alcohol. He wasn’t above finding a particularly wealthy patron in the whorehouses and charging the man for his _own_ services, but names were forbidden and Dorian’s parentage would never be further soiled by his secret ‘profession’.

Not that Dorian was a prostitute; not by any means. He was only enjoying the men he found most attractive, and lifting their coin purses as they left. It was easy to toss a bit of clothing over the satchels and fluster about as the men left the curtained rooms, watching with his lower lip between his teeth and then cheering himself up with a luxurious bath, a meal, and a new trinket or two with the spoils.

He never really had to use his magic unless it was to dry his clothes, after some nights spent in the small outdoor areas of the alienages. He was mistrusting of the whoremasters, so he never accepted their offers of housing in return for a percentage of his ‘earnings’, but he _did_ accept when he became desperate enough for a bath. It was a surprisingly clean and well-maintained bathhouse, and Dorian loved the feel of the warm water and cool marble. He paid dearly for it, but while he may be a runaway urchin from Tevinter, he would _not_ be a filthy, runaway urchin.


	8. What Dreams May Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian dreams, but it's not always the same theme.

When Dorian accompanied the Inquisitor and his companions on a quest, Dorian dreamed of fire. 

It kept him at an unconscious distance from the others, when they shared a tent. That way, he didn’t need to be curled against the attractive Trevelyan in the middle of the night, or huddled in front of the iron Bull for warmth. He had no control over his own dreams, but sometimes the dreams were comically coincidental.

When Dorian slept alongside a lover in his rooms beside the library, Dorian dreamed of ice. 

It forced him to cuddle up to whomever was sharing his broad bed, and he was often awoken from his frosty slumber when his lover found him rather close throughout the night. Dorian never complained about a second–or third, or fourth–go ‘round, but the dreams sometimes stuck with him. He either welcomed his lover’s further advances with open arms and chilly toes, or the other man was coldy rebuffed, and forced out before sunrise.

When Dorian slept alone, he dreamed of death. 

The death of Felix and the deaths of those he had trusted throughout the earliest parts of his life. Some seemed almost faceless as Dorian tossed and turned in his sleep; movements he never had during fire-sleep, or ice-sleep. He was a very solid sleeper, and the visions he had of death unnerved his mind enough, that even Dorian’s body itself couldn’t find rest. The laughter haunted him even into the dregs of wakefulness, when the sun was still newborn in the sky, and the crusts of sleep still clung to Dorian’s lashes.

When Dorian stayed awake, he dreamed of nothing at all.

It was perfect lucidity; no ice, no fire, no death. No haunting memories, or dying friends, or murderous demons with icicles clinging to their gaping maws. Dorian could stay awake for days, if needed, though he was an incoherent mess for some time after. He kept himself awake with draughts of lager mixed with herbs he gathered while questing–ashwagandha, the elves called it–so his mind stayed alert while the body would eventually collapse from fatigue. He often ‘woke’ himself into a type of fitful, dreamless nap, so the Inquisitor would have to call the healers to gather him up upon finding him, restrain him, and then force him into actual sleep.

Wherein the cycle begins anew.


	9. Fly Free, Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cages were meant to break spirits, but Magister Halward couldn't have expected his son's spirit to soar instead.

The time Dorian spent in a cold, dark cage is a time he wishes he could forget.

He’d been unruly when the Imperium’s templars came for him, and he fought valiantly but foolishly. He earned himself a few bruises and a rather nasty gash on the back of his right hand, then found himself thrown into a dungeon-type of place, though it was still within the confines of House Pavus. He remembered hearing about the ‘cages’ once upon a time from one of his nannies, but no further investigation revealed a way down _to_ them, nor did Dorian ever hear of them even being used.

He was half out of his mind and thrashed wildly as the templars carried him down the stone staircase, the air thick with the stink of mildew and age. Dorian found himself sobering quickly from the cold and the smell; his magic was drained from his earlier fight and the alcohol that had been in his system was slowly dissipating. The hangover he’d have after he woke from any rest he eventually got–whether it be from exhaustion or simple passing out–would certainly overshadow the pain on his hand and the pain in his heart.

“I’m no peon, you monsters!” Dorian cried, trying to fend off the templars’ hold, before they tossed him into the cell closest to the staircase. “I’m the scion of this house! You’ve no right to hold me here!”

The templars only did their duty and locked the door behind them, leaving Dorian on the cold, stone floor in the dark. They hadn’t even lit a torch for him and while Dorian scrambled to his feet to beat at the wooden door, he finally felt the weight of the manacles holding his wrists captive before him. They clanged against the wood and while Dorian’s hands were near to each other, his initial attempt at forcing magic upon the door was fruitless; he was drained. 

“Calm, young Master. It was Magister Halward whom had you brought here. Perhaps you had better clean up your language and take it up with him?”

Dorian scowled and tried his magic again, but only succeeded in a tiny puff of green cast; hardly enough to even light kindling aflame. He stopped trying after that and simply poured himself to the floor in the corner furthest from the door, his knees drawn to his chest and his shackled arms holding them as effectively as he could. 

Two days passed before Dorian even heard another’s voice, and it was that of his father. Magister Halward spoke slowly, with determination and conviction, as he told Dorian what the future held for the young altus. Dorian cried in silence but stayed quiet when he was finally led from the cage later that day, ashamed that his fine clothes were covered in filth. Two days was a long time to sit alone and think about what he had done, and it was another two before Dorian said goodbye to Tevinter forever. 

He left during the night and had to kill the man assigned to guard the door to his rooms. It was another templar and thus not an easy fight, but Dorian found that he almost relished the kill. He had a pack slung over his shoulder as he ducked out into the gardens surrounding House Pavus, only looking back once. There were no guards and no one on the balconies, and Dorian felt immeasurably lighter as he ran, finally understanding why a freed bird sang.


	10. Quarterstaff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's acrobatics draw a crowd.

The sun wasn’t even up yet, and Dorian was sweating from exertion in Skyhold’s training yard. He could hear people whispering things about him as he moved through his motions, and every one of them was a member of Cullen’s army. They were awake early for their daily training session and their commander would arrive eventually, but Dorian used what little time he had _before_ they filled the yard, to work on his quarterstaff techniques.

He was in his leather-covered breeches, boots and cloak, but no shirt beneath the cloak. He knew he’d sweat it up anyway, but he was trying for stretching techniques; ones he could use for longer hand-to-hand combat attacks, without the need for extending the staff far enough that an enemy could take it from him. It included lunges, parries, and sharp jabs towards an unseen enemy, but the acrobatics involved were what drew the vocal reactions from his ‘audience’.

Stabbing the staff into the ground gave Dorian the advantage of lift; he could flip forward using the staff as his arms and cartwheel towards an enemy, or even backwards _from_ one, if need be. He was far more powerful in his legs, so running, jumping and kicking were viable options during a fight, and finding oneself with a face full of heel spikes often drove an enemy away more quickly than a simple punch or flare of magic.

Dorian whirled once back on his feet from a particularly high flip, curling his arm around the staff and holding it behind him while he regained his balance. Two of the men standing nearby began clapping, causing Dorian to smile. He gave a tiny bow, surprised that the men weren’t as skittish about ‘the mage from Tevinter’, as they had been when the group started arriving at Skyhold. 

“But wait,” Dorian said loudly, waving his empty hand with a flourish. “There’s more.” He began casting along with his acrobatics; forcing fiery circles which he jumped through, then rolled along the ground before getting back to his feet with a hop. It was cathartic for him; showing off to the crowd while actually warming himself up and practicing his craft, but a shout from behind him had the men scattering, and Dorian’s happiness waning.

“And what are we doing, rather than _actual_ training, this morning? Watching the mage show himself off like some dancer at a fanciful brothel? All of you, get to your drills!” Cullen roared, though he stayed near Dorian rather than wandering off with his men. “And you, _mage_ ; using _my_ men as your personal audience. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Dorian knew there wasn’t any _real_ fire behind Cullen’s words. He and the former templar had been intimate for some weeks already, and Dorian had no doubt that Cullen’s men knew what their commander got up to during his off-time. Secrecy was a very expensive commodity.

“Do I detect jealousy, my dear commander? I _could_ have spent the morning performing for just _yourself_ , but you looked so peaceful while sleeping beside me. It would have been a bigger shame to wake you, now that you’re actually sleeping through the night.”

Cullen snorted softly and nodded toward the keep, then headed toward his men, where they had started running drills. “Go on. We’ll discuss this later. A private performance _may_ be necessary, however.”

Dorian smiled and bowed deeply. “Of course.”


	11. The Wyvern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details on Dorian's first encounter with a wyvern. (originally an answered Ask on tumblr, wherein the Asker wanted to know: 'what's the wildest thing Dorian's ever done?')

“Well, not counting the incredible debauchery I got up to regularly as a younger man, it would have to be the incident with the wyvern. 

I was eight or nine, and the neighbouring family–House Talus– were also of high-birth. They had a son that was about a year older than I, and we were assumed _blood brothers_ ; boys of a certain age and noble rank, that would some day become Magisters and help each other form proper alliances. His name was Corum. 

Anyway, we were fooling around as children are oft to do, but in Minrathous’ menagerie. They had all manner of beasts in there, save for actual dragons, and it was the wyvern that most interested Corum. I was partial to the leviathan serpents from the Boric Ocean, but they were under lock and key during overnight hours, and we only had access to those creatures left in the outdoor pens.

The wyvern wasn’t fully grown, you see, and it was barely a child itself, but Corum loved its shimmering scales and the shape of its wings. He climbed the sides of the roofed enclosure and stood as close as he could to the monster, stretching his hands out to it. The thing only ever growled low in its belly at him, its eyes narrowed and glowing with internal energy. It wasn’t yet grown enough to do much damage, but we knew they were poisonous, and the potionmakers in Minrathous used it as a source of poison when their supplies elsewhere ran low.

On the night we’re discussing, however, Corum tried the gate that led into the wyvern’s enclosure first, rather than climbing the walls, and it was unlocked. Likely due to a neglectful caretaker or potionmaker ushered inside by a Magister, but we didn’t care. We went in immediately, and regretted it instantly. The wyvern was upon us within a matter of seconds, and we had no true skills of our own to throw wards up, or even cast anything that would protect us. We were both studying with our nannies, yes, but we were still only _children_. 

Long story short; we both survived the night, but after he was spit-upon by the wyvern’s poison just as we escaped, Corum fell into a deep sickness. When asked, he kept it to himself that we were _both_ there that night, and he never told a soul what had _actually_ happened. He was cured by his father’s luckily-handy poisonmaker, whose emergency kit contained an antidote for wyvern poison. It’s easy to make and keep on hand, but nobody had expected a Magister’s son to poke around in a wyvern’s cage well after midnight.

Now, I may or may not have bored you with this tale, but it’s easily the wildest, non-sexual thing I’ve ever done. I never wish to be locked in a cage with a wyvern again, but fighting them now as an altus is much easier than it _ever_ was as a child.“


	12. Flare For The Dramatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian doesn't exactly _show off_ , but he isn't a statue when he fights, either.

Dorian was stronger than some people gave him credit for. He was also weaker than some people expected him to be, but expectations did not always equal reality. In the case of his relationship with his father, Dorian felt weak but was placated by the Inquisitor’s aide and his devoted words of encouragement and support, but in the case of his strengths, Dorian felt the most pride when he was engaged in battle afield. 

Dorian didn’t exactly _show off_ for the Inquisitor and his companions, but he didn’t hold himself _back_ , either. There was a distinct difference between using his abilities to their utmost potential and showboating, but Dorian had spent enough time in battle to know when each had their chance to shine.

If he had to stomp his feet, spread his legs apart, and raise one hand as if he were calling down some aide from the sky, so be it. Cloak billowing, hair ruffled in the wind; when the lightning came down and struck their opponent to the ground, nobody begrudged Dorian his fancy footwork. No judgement was passed and no snide remarks were given, though Iron Bull kept his eye thoroughly locked on Dorian’s movements at all times during the battle.

‘Once bitten, twice shy’, as the saying goes.

Sera posed while she drew her bow. Bull roared as he swung his axe, sounding all the world like a rage demon come to life. Varric growled and sometimes hooted with glee as he charged toward their foe, Bianca doing its best against the hordes. Even the Inquisitor, usually so calm and solid and the rock upon which the rest seek comfort, had a way of snarling out their anger at the monsters they fought, posing with their bow, or sword, or hand raised with a crackle of gathering magic.

Why would Dorian be any different? He had a certain flare about him, sure; but all mages called upon their surroundings as aide during their battles. They could use the shift of wind or fall of rain as an addition to their powers, or it could also hinder them. Dorian was often found curling in upon himself in battle while he fought, forming attacks out of the shear of bitterly cold wind, or saving his fire from the fall of torrential rains on the Storm Coast. His fire could burn even _in_ water, but it was still hampered somewhat.

Cullen had once commented upon it, while watching Dorian practice in the training field. The fact that Dorian used acrobatics in his fighting style–a style often employed by mages of all races–forced his opponent to pay more attention that was necessary, and drew their attention away from the attacks themselves. Cullen sourly remarked that he’d have to retrain his troops on the fighting style of mages– _Venatori_ –Dorian then corrected. 

Dorian eagerly took up Cullen’s offer, of allowing his troops to be the ‘guinea pigs’ to Dorian’s training regimen. They’d learn how the Venatori fought, and they’d be put through their paces on top of that. It was win-win even for Dorian, who never backed down from a chance to show off in front of a few dozen gawking recruits.

It was only fair, that a skilled altus had an audience in front of which to perform.


	13. Baubles Are A Boy's Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's not a _hoarder_ , but he _does_ love collecting things.

Dorian once collected trinkets from far-off places, and jealously hoarded them in a storage cupboard beneath the stairs, in his private rooms back in Tevinter. The servants weren’t allowed access to any ‘door without a handle’, and Dorian had weak wards put in place to prevent tampering when he wasn’t home. The rule applied to any cupboard, cabinet, chest, hutch or even removable floorboard, wherein no actual access handle could be seen. Most worked on a mechanical toggle; press once to pop it open, press again to close it, but others, like Dorian's, worked with an item the dwarves referred to as ‘earth stones’. They held together tightly, seemingly by magic, but they were invaluable to the dwarven mechanical creations. 

He kept things brought home by his father–and he often stole them from Halward’s private quarters, and the drawers in which he kept his spoils–and the items given to him by visiting dignitaries. As the son of a Magister, Dorian went to parties with his father after he came of age, and royals from the surrounding countries with whom Tevinter shared allegiances brought items from their homelands as symbols of goodwill. There were, of course, large sums of money and trade goods brought for the Magisters themselves, but Dorian didn’t want coin; he wanted trinkets.

There were shells from the Amaranthine Ocean, which Dorian held to his ear and listened with giddy eagerness, to the sound of the crashing waters. Stones from the Vimmark Mountains, each piece in shades of green or gold. Dorian loved trying to catch a glimpse of the flecks f gold within the shining stone, sure that it was authentic but also suspicious about ‘fool’s gold’ from the lower half of the mountain range. No dignitary would dare give a cheap gift, however, and Dorian kept the sparkling stones polished and safe in their green velvet pouch.

He had a small corked jar, the cork itself sealed with heavy wax and a coating of lacquer, to keep its contents contained. The contents–shimmering crystal sand from The Drylands–changed colour depending on an onlooker’s mood. Dorian would sometimes bring the jar out on days when he had fought with his father, r days when he was uncharacteristically happy, just to test it. Usually, it was verifiably true.

But it was the items from Seheron that most interested Dorian. Not items brought by dignitaries, or visiting nobility, no. It was spoils from war that made it to the doorstep of House Pavus. The Magisters often traded items amongst themselves after the templars returned from their months away, and Dorian had eagerly dug through the chest left with Halward, the day Magister Talus visited unannounced.

Now, bone tools from ancient Thedas existed, and Dorian had seen them in the museums in Antiva and Vyrantium, but they were usually made of druffalo horn, or the bones of long-deceased animals of legend. The items Dorian greedily scooped up and barely gave a polite bow in thanks for as he scurried away to his rooms, were actual qunari horns, harvested from slaughtered Tal-Vashoth. They were immense and heavy, and Dorian gave them a good wash and a polish before storing them in his secret cupboard.

He’d heard tales of what the Ben-Hassrath did to the Tal-Vashoth defectors, and it wasn’t surprising that dignitaries from the surrounding area would offer items their templars had stolen or procured for themselves afield. The qunari fascinated him but in a sense of morbid curiosity; to most in Tevinter, they were savages. Dorian only wished to meet one with a less uncouth way of behaving. He only heard tales, but had never met one in person to prove the tales either correct or incorrect.

Until the day he took it upon himself to tell the village of Haven about the massacre in Redcliffe, and a massive qunari on the side of good simultaneously insulted and complimented him. Dorian had spent months wishing for his abandoned trinkets, but the qunari before him–the iron Bull, he was told, whom was a very good friend to the Inquisition–had a set of horns Dorian had never seen before, and his hands itched to touch them.

 _Baby steps_ , he told himself. _Start a new collection in time_.


	14. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian pours his heart out to Cullen.

Dorian was a man that loved mirrors when he was _actually_ using them, but hated them when he wasn’t. Skyhold had few mirrors in the public spaces, save for a few in the throne room to make the space seem larger than it already was, but it was the amount of reflective surfaces _other_ than mirrors that Dorian dealt with on a daily basis.

High-polished buckles, and bracers, and greaves. The shiny surface of Cullen’s shield, or the breastplate armour on the soldiers he trained. Even Dorian’s own clothing had reflective surfaces, but they were for decoration and the enhancement of his spells, so they were a necessary evil he could overlook.

Cullen was first to point it out; Dorian had obviously used a mirror to apply the kohl to his eyes and to perfect his hair and moustache, but as they sparred in the training grounds, it was brought to Dorian’s attention that he turned his head each time the flat of Cullen’s shield faced him in a block.

“It’s a defensive maneuver; surely you’ve heard of them,” Dorian had quipped, brushing the information off as if it were an irritation and nothing more. “If I stare into the garbled reflection of myself, I become distracted.”

Cullen pretended to take the light-hearted explanation as gospel, but he mulled it over in his head until much later that week. He confronted Dorian about it after he’d made sure that Dorian had been into the tavern’s wine, to ensure that he’d get honest answers. Dorian was a great manipulator of people–not as good as the Iron Bull, but very similar–and his personal wards only went down as his blood-alcohol level rose.

“It’s failure, Commander,” Dorian said quietly, his third bottle of wine missing its topmost quarter of contents, allowing him the use of his words but lowering his guard. “It’s failure that I see when I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror. In the mirror, the side of the polished goblets the Inquisitor uses to entertain guests, the flat of your shield. I see a man that has wasted his life, only to become a shame to his family, and an admittedly-proud pariah.“

“You’re none of those things, Dorian,” Cullen tried to explain. “You survived a hardship most have never faced. You made it here to warn us of the attack on Redcliffe and save all of those in Haven from certain death, and you’re far better company than Bull and his Chargers. _You’ve_ got proper manners.”

Dorian snorted softly and took a few more gulps of the overly-sweet wine, carefully wiping over his mouth with the back of his hand. “There were tales in Tevinter, of two-way mirrors existing in Thedas, though no one had ever actually _owned_ one. The Magisters spoke of them with reverence, as if they were an ancient relic, and I’ve no doubt that someone powerful–maybe even the Archon–had one, but lied about it. The mirrors didn’t allow travel from one place to another, but they allowed the viewer to step inside and trade places with their reflective self; _to live a life opposite their own_.”

Cullen stared a little bit, surprised that such things existed and he hadn’t heard about them, but part of him still sat suspiciously upon the templar fence and questioned everything the mage had to say. Dorian continued, as if Cullen’s silence wasn’t even a hindrance, the alcohol loosening his tongue and actually putting him into better spirits than he had been barely an hour earlier.

“I have control as I apply my kohl, or tame my hair, so I have no fear of the man in the mirror when I do such things. It’s when I’m unprepared, that it catches me off guard. You see, there’s a backwards little world in the mirror waiting for me, Commander. There’s a perfect life with myself as Archon. There’s love and adoration from my parents. There’s even a handsome man at my side destined to be my beloved, and our love is accepted by those around us, and I’ve no worries or fears about being ousted as some wretch.”

Cullen reached a hand out to touch Dorian on the arm, but Dorian gave only a weak smile and downed the rest of his wine, choking a bit as it caught in his throat. Tears prickled at the corners of Dorian’s eyes and he ignored them in order to continue, drunk enough to pour his heart out, but sober enough to know what he was doing.

“I don’t want to see..” Dorian started, then stopped for a moment’s pause. He shoved his chair away from the table and kept his eyes up at Cullen’s face as he stood, the candlelight from the table giving him a visible reflection in Cullen’s breastplate. “..the life I’ll never have. If you’ll excuse me, Commander, I have somewhere I need to be.”

Cullen lifted a hand to wave but Dorian was already breezing past him and out into the corridor, hurrying for his rooms before he made any more of a fool of himself. Dorian felt ridiculous already and the amount of wine in his system only added to his embarrassment, as he bumped statues and stone walls on his way up to his quarters. It was by the grace of Andraste alone, that Dorian made it safely, but after closing the door and locking it securely, Dorian took it upon himself to break all of the mirrors he owned.

Cullen listened from the corridor and grimaced each time he heard the telltale smash of shattered glass. He made a mental note to have Josephine order mirrors from the glazier, as soon as the merchant was available to visit. It was the least Cullen could do, as he had suffered through Dorian’s story and found far too many similarities with his own. Too many times, Cullen thought ‘I, as well’, during Dorian’s tale. Kindred spirits, perhaps, sharing a hate for their own reflection.

After all, Cullen didn’t even _own_ a mirror.


	15. Drain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's skills in espionage leave a lot to be desired.

“We’re heading home, Dorian.” A pause. “Dorian?”

The Inquisitor glanced more carefully at the seated mage, Dorian’s head in his hands as he hunched forward enough to have his elbows on his knees. Dorian lifted his head and smiled brightly at the Inquisitor, the gentleness and affection in the smile a sharp contrast to the smudged kohl around Dorian’s eyes. It wasn’t evident that he had been _crying_ , but he _had_ been rubbing his eyes enough to muss his makeup.

“Are you all right?”

Dorian waved a hand and got to his feet, attempting to brush off the Inquisitor’s concern as he stroked under his eyes to rid them of the extra kohl. “I’m quite fine, but perhaps a little more tired than I’d first anticipated. Glad to be going home.”

The Inquisitor gave a wan smile but allowed Dorian to walk past him, and join up with the rest of their party. Dorian had been dragging his feet and though performing well when an actual battle occurred, his behaviour had gotten slowly worse as the days had passed. It was the Iron Bull that noticed it first–the Inquisitor wasn’t _surprised_ that Bull would notice first, what with his background and all–and he had nonchalantly mentioned it to their fearless leader, in order to garner their attention, rather than call Dorian out on it himself.

Bull had mentioned that while fighting alongside Dorian, the mage had become almost reckless; he didn’t block as many attacks as he was capable of blocking, nor did he cast shielding spells for himself, though he _did_ keep them up for his companions. It was noted that Dorian was acting almost careless _on purpose_ , as if he didn’t care what the outcome was for himself, but he was still dutiful about the lives of his friends.

“It’s a Drain,” Bull said quietly, as they trudged through waist-deep grasses on their march back toward Skyhold. “Dorian is wiped out physically and he’s been in a bad place mentally for some days now, even before we left to come out here. I think he got some bad news from back home, and he’s taking it out on himself in a way he thinks we won’t notice.”

There was nothing secretive about what Bull was saying; the Inquisitor had noticed it, as well. Dorian wasn’t using his lyrium potions as often as he normally did, but only topped up his reserves when they were mid-battle. Bull expressed his reluctance to bring it up lest Dorian take it as a personal assault and clam up, but the Inquisitor wasn’t as forthcoming with their ignorance. 

A days’ journey out from Skyhold had everyone in good spirits, and the Inquisitor cornered Dorian as they stopped to rest for lunch. The day’s heat was welcome and they all rested in the sun with their meals in their laps, though Dorian had neglected to grab anything for himself. The Inquisitor brought enough for them both and settled unannounced beside the mage, a smile on their face, but a cloud over their heart.

Dorian looked over and took the package when it was handed to him, pleased on the inside when he saw the half loaf of bread, slices of dried, cured sausage and chunk of cheese, and the Inquisitor went right for the kill. 

“You’re forcing yourself to suffer for something that isn’t your fault, you know,” they started, chewing in between exchanges. “Bull knows what happened to Felix; it’s no longer a secret when it comes to the Ben-Hassrath. We’re all sorry for your loss, and you don’t need to punish yourself for what happened to him. It was out of your hands the day of the darkspawn raid, and not even Alexius’ mad plan could have saved him.”

Dorian was a little hurt, but didn’t let it show. _Of course Bull would find out._ There wasn’t a secret in Skyhold worth its salt, that either Bull or Leliana didn’t know about. 

“Thank you,” Dorian said softly, chewing slowly on a bit of cheese. “I know my suffering wouldn’t have stopped his, but it gave me an idea of how he felt before he died. Lyrium couldn’t keep his energy levels up, no nourishment tasted like anything other than straw. The body weakens to the point of collapse, and..I was nearly there, wasn’t I?”

The Inquisitor nodded, then patted Dorian on the shoulder. Their lunch was picked up and the Inquisitor got up to head back to the others. “I’ll leave you be for now, but you’re not to let things like that fester any longer, all right? I need all of us in a good place when we’re together.”

Dorian grabbed the Inquisitor’s elbow and lowered his head in embarrassment, not wishing to look them in the eye just yet. “Please stay. I..don’t wish to be alone right now.”

The Inquisitor snorted softly and smiled at the side of Dorian’s head, then settled back down into the grass. Sparing time for all of the companions was important, the Inquisitor decided, so long as they returned the favour when the battle was finally over.


End file.
